


you take time

by euphania



Category: Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Coming Out, F/F, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Religion and Sexuality, Sibling Bonding, attempts at a culturally accurate and sensitive russia, nothin like it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-02 05:45:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8653120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euphania/pseuds/euphania
Summary: Wherein the Bolkonsky siblings have a... talk.





	

**Author's Note:**

> hello hello! welcome to what is essentially andrei, marya, and the great coming out of 2016. hopefully you'll enjoy this incredibly self-indulgent fic. before you begin the ride, there are a couple contextual details/notes you should know:
> 
> 1\. this takes place about a month after andrei's come back from england (the equivalent of him not being here™ during the kuragin/rostova affair) in moscow, 2016. more or less.  
> 2\. amélie = mlle bourienne. in this, she came into the bolkonsky household after the death of the kids’ mother and neither sibling really knows why. she's, you know, a companion! a friend! an enemy?  
> 3\. in case you wonder, marya is homeschooled and isn't too well-versed in science/math ever since her father deemed that failing at geometry = failing at life. (also he’s afraid of her ever having a “respectable job” in his eyes and leaving her, so.)  
> 5\. mamochka = mama, and on that note...  
> 6\. i am. not russian! pretty far from it. however i'm a sucker for geographical accuracy, let's say, and i tried my best to make this culturally accurate and appropriate. i'm still super not-russian, though, so bear that in mind.  
> all that being said, enjoy!!!

It’s been a month since Andrei’s returned from England; a month since Marya could break her guard, just the slightest.

Things feel calm in the Bolkonsky household, now that summer and Andrei are here. Their father is subdued, more pleasant following his son’s return; Amélie is singing louder; Marya has nothing but a sense of warmth and quiet as she does the laundry, braids her hair, reads Andrei’s old science textbooks. It’s to her happiness and amazement that even her brother manages to retain the gentler and kinder sides of him that England gave him, regardless of everything that happened over the winter. He blushes more than ever, and whenever Pierre is over, Marya can hear at least one of his laughs through the walls.

Andrei is better. Amélie is… better. She is lighter, less bashful than before, and forces small talk in the living room as they both watch Interny. Though she thought the feelings long gone, Marya keeps finding her eyes caught on Amélie’s dark hair, her—probably soft—lips, her hands...

She is _just_ happy to have a friend again, just as she is happy to have Andryusha back. Nothing more. It _can’t_ be anything more.

Marya dismisses the thoughts. She digresses. August is an easy month, but something lingers in her mind.

 

It’s been a month since he’s returned from England; a month since Andrei has had to relearn all the customs he had replaced. We wear slippers inside. Clean your plate with bread. Yes, MTV is still in.

Perhaps it’s just the fact that he’s been away too long, but everything at home feels simpler. Father is as stable as he can be; Masha is Masha—timid, loving, obeying; Amélie exists, in a manner Andrei is finding less and less aggravating. He himself feels more… _plain_. Creases in his forehead stay vanished, and, as Pierre points out, all of his features seem gentler, lighter. He knows where to find happiness now, and though Pierre’s presence feels close to too nostalgic—his eyes shine as naïve as _hers_ did—Pierre can make him laugh.

(Pierre, it seems, can do anything.)

With the home life quiet, smaller details begin to emerge. When Andrei passes through the living room, interrupting Marya and Amélie’s summer Interny binge, his sister’s gaze falls not on the screen, but on her companion, filled with a kind of curiosity, of wonder, of longing. It doesn’t take him long to reason its nature—Andrei recognizes her look well. Though he can still scarcely believe (accept) it, he’s seen it enough himself in video screens on Skype, in photos playing chess, in the reflection from the mirror in his room as he talks to _him._

Andrei reaches his conclusion about Marya certain that he’s reached it first. They _are_ siblings, after all; perhaps he should tell her, tell her it’s fine, tell her God can’t mind, tell her people can be as scary as they are wrong, tell her _Pierre._

Andrei dismisses the thoughts. He digresses. August is an easy month, but at the back of his thoughts sits a conversation he knows he needs to have.

 

“Masha, let’s go for a walk.”

It’s the 29th. The weather is brisker than normal, sunny and with breeze.

“A walk?” She stares at her brother. He had broken her train of thought; she had been pondering Amélie’s eyes with a hint of wonder.

“Yes, a walk. I haven’t truly talked to you in a while…”

“I don’t really think that’s right, Andryusha. We talked just last night while we did the dishes,” she says. Andrei sighs.

“Yes, I suppose you’re right, but come on. Don’t you want to get out of the house? Go past the two blocks to the DIXY?”

“Father will—”

“No one will mind. We’re siblings, and I’ve already told him I was going. With you.”

Marya purses her lips, and Andrei gives a gentle look, battle won.

“I’ll go get your jacket.”

 

Skver Devichyego Polya is prettiest in summer, Marya decides. The trees hang heavy with green leaves; the flowers lining the walkways stand sturdy.  
She dismissed her brother earlier, but he was right—she can’t remember the last time they truly spoke to each other without inhibitions. Out in public, Moscow eats up all secrets; passer-bys catch nothing but snippets of sentences. There is no Father to demand to know everything they say out of earshot; there is no laughing Amélie and her love of eavesdropping, harmless but paranoia-inducing.

It’s been too long since someone has called her “Masha.” Out in public, Andrei can talk about England with otherworldliness, about football with melodrama, about Pierre with fondness; not new subjects of discussion, but every word seems to carry more honesty. Slowly, Marya talks about herself, about dinner plans for tonight, about what she’s learned from the textbooks— _do you know, Andryusha, how many neurons are firing right now, just to let me talk to you?_

“It’s remarkable, Andrei. Science is _remarkable_ ,” Marya finishes her soliloquy. Andrei nods at the edge of Marya’s line of sight. As she always does when she’s calm, nerves loose, she’s let her vision fade on the horizon, let her hands float in front of her body, express themselves in ways she can’t at home. She’s paused, frozen in space, almost floating, and it’s as good a time as ever, Andrei thinks.

“Hey, Masha, I want to talk to you about something.”

Marya’s nerves instantly constrict, drop, and shatter like a plate against tile. She breathes and tries to take in the situation: they’re sitting on a park bench. The air feels warm. There is no one around who can hear what they’re saying. Breathe again.

“Yes?” she asks.

Andrei slows, settles into his seat. Marya turns to stare at him with her wide eyes, dilated, almost kitten-like. He takes a heavy sigh. Marya’s heart batters.

“Masha.”

A lengthy pause. Andrei _does_ have a flair for melodrama.

“What do you think of boys?”

“Um.”

Andrei’s serious. He always is.

“I’m serious.”

“I know,” Marya says; she almost wants to laugh. “Andrei...”

“Well?”

“They’re.... they’re okay, I guess. Pierre is nice, like a brother,” she supposes.

“I meant ‘boys’ more as a concept, but go on.”

“As a concept?”

“I’ll clarify: do you _like_ boys?”

“I—”

“Would you marry one?”

“Andrei, what are these questions? I can not imagine _not_ marrying a man… it is what God wants. I don’t understand why you’re asking me such things.”

Andrei opens his mouth to speak but stops. His face softens; his look turns gentle, almost patronizing, and Marya finally realizes what he’s getting at; it hits her from her stomach and radiates out like gravel. Cruel come the faces of Amélie, of Lise… of Natasha.

The concept is not new to her. Nearly everyone has spat the word “homosexual” into the air. An awful, ugly word. Sick. It can’t possibly...

“I… you know I am celibate,” Marya finally whispers, eyes on the ground.

“That does not change whom you love, Masha.”

“I don’t—”

“You can be truthful with me. Please be truthful with me.”

“But... _God_...” She takes in the beginning of a sob, refusing to look at her brother. “You are convicting me!”

Her chest heaves, her face contorting in on itself and reddening. Andrei blinks. Marya hangs her head, covering it with her hands; one, two, three cries. Andrei takes her wrists, gently, moves his fingers up to wrap around hers. She shakes, her breaths wet and heavy.

“Masha, do you think I am a sinner?”

“I—”

“Do you?”

“N-n-no.”

“Masha, look at me.”

Marya keeps her gaze on the ground. There’s dirt between the cracks of the pavement. In the overwhelming city of Moscow, it is so impossible that they are alone. A miracle within itself. The wind blows, a car horn beeps. Her breaths go shallow.

“Masha, darling…” Andrei whispers. He squeezes her hands, both covered with his. Marya turns.

“You wouldn’t tell Father, would you.”

Andrei shakes his head, grimacing.

“You said I’m not a sinner. You, you like girls, as boys do.”

A dry sob and a shake reverberate through Marya.

“You know I can’t believe… but if there was, you would not be defying Him. You are not defying anyone. You just _are._ ”

Marya breathes in with arrhythmia.

“The priests say—”

“The priests say so much that,” he hesitates, “God could not have said it all. They can and are flawed.”

“You’re wrong—”

“You say I am not a sinner. Masha, when I do, I like girls, but Masha…” he pauses, and speaks again with a sense of impossibility, cheeks red, “I also like boys. As girls do, I suppose.”

Marya pales.

“Andr—”

“Am I a sinner now?”

“Andryusha!”

Before he can react, Marya is hugging him as a lifeline.

 

It’s after 11 at night when she knocks on his door, her stomach tingling. For once, all of her hair is loose, brilliantly wavy and long, and in her plaid pajama bottoms and oversized Ivanushki shirt, Marya is almost a weeping angel.

She’s taken off her cross. God can’t hear this conversation.

Andrei sets down his phone—he had been reading the BBC on his bed and in the dark—and blinks.

“Masha, it’s late,” he states blankly.

“You’re still up,” she shrugs, ghosting through the darkness until she finds the switch for the lamp on the bedstand. Her eyes are a fading red, the corners slightly pink. Andrei squints in the sudden light as she clambers onto his bed, hugging her knees to her chest when she sits.

“I… I need to talk to you. About… about...”

“About earlier,” Andrei fills in. He leans back against the bedframe, tugging the sheets back into place (they were never undone). Marya looks from him to the ground and nods.

“How—how do you do it? You seem so calm, Andryusha. I’m… I’m just scared. Really scared. And confused.”

“I had time.”

Marya sniffles.

“I had time, and I had England. I suppose I noticed it before going, but there, the discourse is different. There were parades in London, and two girls at my school were... together. I had exposure, and I had my host sister. I realized that there can never be anything unconventional about love, sincere love.”

“I… I just can’t believe any of it. Andryusha, all that I know... vile, vile things. I can’t—I can’t be a…”

“Perhaps you’re not,” he admits, and a different kind of fear winds through Marya’s stomach at the thought. “However… please don’t think it bad. I can’t have you hating me, Masha.” It sounds as serious and fearful as it does light-hearted and dry; Marya smiles with fatigue. Andrei pats the space next to him and she slowly crawls over, legs stretched out in a mirror of her brother. She rests her head on his shoulder—he tenses but allows it; they sit in silence. Marya’s stomach settles; her heartbeat settles; she almost feels at peace.

“The word you might be looking for is ‘lesbian,’” Andrei offers after a moment. “I don’t know if you’ve heard it before.”

Marya shakes her head and forms the word with her lips, softly and slowly. It’s a pretty word. It can’t mean such an awful thing, right?

Supposedly awful.

“It still… it’s wrong,” she decides aloud with impulsive divisiveness. Andrei nearly flinches, and guilt stabs her stomach.

“I’m sorry.”

“It takes time,” he responds vaguely. The lamp flickers, not ominously. Marya fiddles with her hair as she thinks _maybe_. The digital clock on Andrei’s desk reads 23:49.

Marya takes a moment to look at her brother, really look at him. It’s not necessarily a good vantage point from where she is against his shoulder, but it only makes him seem more _human_. He hates that, she knows.

Andrei, Andrei, Andrei... her gentle brother; always confident, self-assured, always _right_. Andrei, who doesn’t shy away from conflict, who goes to school and who can only drink black coffee. Andrei, who’s never done anything _evil_ , so maybe. It takes time. It took all of England for him.

“Who… who made you realize?” Marya finds herself wondering out loud.

“Who made _you_?” Andrei retaliates, blushing. It’s teasing, but Marya can sense the terseness beneath it. She’s struck a sour chord.

“I’m sorry,” she begins, “that was invasive, I’m—”

“Pierre.”

Marya’s voice drops off, and a million times she’s felt like she’s intruded on something between them flash in front of her eyes: the mornings where she’d walk into the living room to see them having fallen asleep on the couch in the middle of some psychological thriller. Yellow flowers and “Don’t stay a stranger.”

“Oh, Andryusha...” she says, her face and tone feather-soft.

“Please.” His voice is sentimental as it fades. His face hardens as Marya squeezes his hand. There’s a sense of acute tragedy to it all. Unattainability. She nudges his shoulder, tries to be comforting, but Andrei’s building his walls again, and they won’t come back down tonight.

“I—I’ll go to bed now. Thank you.”

She hesitates as she sets her hand on the doorknob.

“Just. One more question.”

He doesn’t respond positively or negatively, but before she’s rationalized her thoughts, she’s asking, “Would… would Mamochka approve?”

Her words send a shock through her brother. He visibly shakes. Marya hangs her head as she turns out the door, “I’m sorry” on her lips.

She doesn’t hear him say it, and he’ll never admit that he said it, but… _God_ , he needs her to.

 

It’s not that easy. One revolutionary day doesn’t erase sixteen years of faith and rhetoric, of public conversation and casual hate. Marya’s half-convinced their discussions are part of a dream. Would that hurt the cross against her breast any less? Would that quell anyone’s stare if they knew?

Realization isn’t the same as understanding, as action.

Andrei lied. She lied. Acceptance is the last step of a path she doesn’t want to take, and oh, forgive her, God, she is _so scared_.

She thinks about how Andrei looked at Natasha: tenderly, in uninhibited amazement. Adoration and such awe. She tries to imagine someone—some man—looking at her that way. That would make sense; how else could it be? There’s no other way.

She’s convinced, right?

Except time continues, and for the short rest of August, for the whole of September, for the rest of the year, she sees how Andrei— _her_ brother, her honest, kind, undeceived brother—looks at Pierre. It’s tender. It’s with uninhibited amazement and without fear. Awe and such adoration. She tries to imagine someone— _someone_ —looking at her that way.

Maybe, just maybe, that would make sense.


End file.
